


Led To Sea

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Frottage, Gift Fic, M/M, Magical Realism, Oral Sex, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Siren Bucky, Smut, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 14:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11255181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: Bucky snatches up a loose stone and throws it at his prey. It strikes the book, bouncing off the pages and landing in the prey’s lap.He finally looks up, heavy brows furrowed over bright blue eyes. Bucky throws another stone, which catches him on the shoulder.“Hey, ya little punk!” Bucky yells, his voice a harsh rasp.Oh. Fuck.





	Led To Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capsiclemycaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsiclemycaptain/gifts).



> Annina asked for a story, and this... well... this happened.  
> Thank you to Trish and Moony for reading and enthusiasm, and to obsessivereader for beta reading
> 
> Art by the phenomonal [Brooklyn-bisexual](http://brooklyn-bisexual.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Words by [littleblackfox](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com/)

The ocean thrums under his skin, a saltwater song that calls out to the rivers that flood the veins of men, hot and saline and sweet like the taste of copper on his tongue.  
The taste of fish no longer satisfies him, cold and shining, silver as the moon. He yearns for something more. Something richer and stronger, a hot, sweet rush over his tongue. Warm blood and dull teeth instead of scales and sightless round eyes.  
Dawn breaks across the sea, and he moves against the tides, between the sharp lines of jagged rocks and riptides to the rockpools that run deep and cold. His hair spreads around him in the water, like fine fronds of seaweed. His tail flicks lazily back and forth.  
The sun climbs high up in the sky, and he waits.

There is a scent on the air, faint but slowly growing in strength. Musk and oil and a chemical tang, draped in aching and regret. And old sorrow, dulled with time, weighs heavy on a stitched and scarred heart. Its pulse is strong, pounding like waves against the rocks. A willful heart, then. Stubborn and proud.  
Bucky smiles to himself, sharp-toothed with hunger. A strong heart, barely contained in a rattle-bag of bones and tightly drawn skin.  
Bucky sidles along the run of black rocks, pulling himself along hand over hand, cold skin and hard shell, his tail drifting in the water behind him, the ruffled tailfin spread out like a sail. He moves silently from pool to pool, slipping along the shallows in stealthy grace leaving barely a ripple in his wake.  
The prey does not go down to the wide, sandy beach. Does not stay out in the open where he would be safe from predators. Instead he walks along the slopes where scrubby grasses and silver-leaved thornbushes give way to the sand, following the coastline to the outcrop of slippery black rocks and tenacious evergreens.  
For several minutes the prey's scent is lost amongst the sharp sting of pine and cedar, but his heart beats on, a little shockwave that ripples out in concentric circles around him, tracing his path through the sparse woodland.  
There is a clearing, a break in the trees where the shadows are denser and the wind blows cold. The prey leaves the shelter of the trees, picking out a path down to the water’s edge. The pools runs deep and deadly, and unwary feet could stumble and be lost without a trace.  
The prey walks along until he finds a place to sit away from the splash of water, making himself comfortable on the stones. He is small and slender, pale-skinned and golden-haired, his body a stark contrast to his fierce little heart. His clothing is worn but cared for, a white shirt that is threadbare at the collar and cuffs. Boots frayed at the seams and worn through at the soles. He sets a bag down on the rocks beside him, rummaging through the contents until he pulls out a paperback book. He turns to a marked page and begins to read.

Clouds scud across the sky, passing over the sun, and Bucky draws closer.  
He dives down, swimming close to the sea bed, silent and fast, before raising his head above water and sighting his prey.  
Bucky tips back his head, opens his mouth and begins to sing.  
The melody is sweet, filled with promises and hearts desires. The rhythm strong, like the pounding of the waves, like the beating of a drum.  
The human licks his finger delicately, using the damp fingertip to catch the top corner of the next page in his book. He sweeps the white leaf across, smooths it down with the flat of his hand and keeps reading.  
Bucky frowns. Maybe he’s too far away, and the siren song is lost in the wind and waves. He ducks his head below the water and swims closer.  
Bucky emerges from the water, pressing against the sheltering rocks. He takes in deep lungfuls of air, tree resin catching in the back of his throat, and sings.  
The song soars upwards, climbing higher and higher, and Bucky’s throat tenses, weaving his spell and casting it like a net over his prey.  
The prey reaches into his bag and pulls out a bottle of water. He unscrews the cap and takes a sip.  
A Kittiwake lands on the rocks above Bucky and gives a curious little shriek. Bucky flaps his hand at the bird and it flies away. The prey doesn’t even glance up.

His position is compromised by the handful of gulls and murres that gather around him, circling overhead and landing on the rocks to squawk and keen. Bucky slips under the surface again, swimming strongly to the waters at his prey’s feet.  
He’s close, much too close, even on the far side of the pool, but deepwater and damnation, this time he will not fail.  
The prey doesn’t notice his arrival, and Bucky suppresses a hiss of irritation. What’s so special about that book anyway? What could possibly be more fascinating, more hypnotic than a siren song?  
He breathes deeply, filling his chest with power, and sings.  
His throat burns with the strength of it, the song spiralling upwards and out, gathering speed and momentum. Eddies swirl in the pools around him, tiny little waterspouts rising up and dropping down. Dark clouds gather overhead and the trees bend with the wind, their leaves trembling in a low susurrus as Bucky sings until his throat is raw.  
There is a gentle _plop plop_ as a handful of rats, drawn out from the woodlands by the sound of Bucky’s singing, scamper over the rocks and dive into the water. The prey doesn’t notice them scrambling over his bag, hopping over his stretched out legs. They paddle across the pool and gather around Bucky, bright black eyes gazing up at him. Gulls circle overhead, screaming and diving down low, their wings dipping into the water before wheeling up again.  
The prey turns another page in his book and keeps reading.  
Bucky growls, dismissing the rats with a wave of his hand. They squeak disconsolately and slope back to land, climbing onto the rock to shake themselves dry and glare at him. He snatches up a loose stone and throws it at his prey. It strikes the book, bouncing off the pages and landing in the prey’s lap.  
He finally looks up, heavy brows furrowed over bright blue eyes. Bucky throws another stone, which catches him on the shoulder.  
“Hey, ya little punk!” Bucky yells, his voice a harsh rasp.  
_Oh. Fuck._  
Bucky dives under the water. Stupid stupid stupid. Never let them see you. Getting seen means getting caught, and that’s a whole other world of pain.  
There’s nothing for it, the human has seen Bucky, he has to die. He’ll have to be quick, humans are curious, they’ll come too close to the water, hoping to catch another glimpse of the strange creature.  
He’s fast and strong, he’ll snatch them and drag them down where the sunlight cannot reach, and hold them until they stop struggling. Then the ocean can take what remains.

Bucky swims forward, his tailfin slicing through the water, and reaches out to the black rocks, creeping up slowly until he is just below the surface.  
The prey hovers over the water, his features clear in the still surface. A strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, eyes like the Pacific, blue chased with green.  
The prey withdraws from the water's edge, out of easy reach. Bucky follows slowly, lifting his head out of the water. He reaches up a brittle shell hand and grips the uneven ledge, pulling himself up to peer over the edge at his prey. The sunlight warms his back and shoulders, his tail swishing back and forth in the water.  
The human is searching through his bag, pulling out a little case and snapping it open. Bucky watches silently as he pulls out two pieces of moulded plastic and tucks the case back in his bag.  
“Hey,” the prey says brightly. “Sorry, can’t hear nothing without these.”  
Bucky frowns, resting his elbows on the ledge and folding his hands under his chin. The human doesn’t seem in awe of him, or in any particular rush to kill him and put his carcass on display in a travelling freakshow. The human twists the little plastic buds into his ears, fidgeting with them until he’s satisfied they’re in place.  
“They kind of hurt after a while, see,” he explains. “And usually there’s no one out here to bother me.” He looks suddenly apologetic. “Not… not that you’re bothering me!” he stammers.  
Bucky runs his fingers through his wet hair, combing it off his face, and the prey's eyes track his movements. There is something in his gaze, in the unconscious way his tongue touches his teeth. Curiosity, or longing, something ill-defined and fleeting.  
Bucky says nothing, and the prey’s expectant look crumbles. He turns back to his bag, marking the page in his book and packing it away. His heart is fierce, though, and what crumbles away reveals an iron core.  
“You want a cookie?” the prey pulls a package out of his bag. There is a waft of sugar and vanilla in the air as he shakes it, offering. Bucky is curious, but can’t climb out of the water or move any closer.  
“No?” the prey asks, pulling a crumbly little disc out of the bag and popping it into his mouth. He crunches and swallows, and the sight of his pale throat working makes Bucky want to sink his teeth into that warm, creamy skin, press his tongue to the vein in his throat and feel the life beat out against his lips.  
“Well, help yourself then.” The prey sets the bag on the ledge between them, just out of Bucky’s reach. It looks almost like a trap, and Bucky briefly wonders which of them is the predator and which is the prey.

Bucky growls, low in his throat, and grabs another stone. He pitches it at the prey's head, and it strikes him squarely on the nose. Bucky drops back into the water with a loud splash, swimming to the far side of the pool. He slumps down among the seaweed, irritable and restless, though he can’t understand why. The prey walks up to the very edge of the pool, and Bucky could dart forward and grab him by the ankle, crack his skull open on the rocks and let the tide take him. Instead he folds his arms across his bare chest and glares as the human stumbles, his blue eyes widening.  
“You’re a mermaid!” the prey gasps.  
Bucky hisses and flicks his tail out of the water, sending a wave towards the human, who skitters back from the ledge as the water dashes against the rocks. He comes sloping back, and Bucky flicks water at him again, catching him right in his dumb face.  
“Do I look like a damn maid?” Bucky snarls.  
The human chuckles, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes, and takes a long look at Bucky. He takes in the dark hair that trails in Bucky’s eyes, the breadth of his shoulders and his slender waist. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip as his gaze settles on the defined muscles of Bucky’s chest. The twisted, knotted flesh of Bucky’s left shoulder is regarded with no hint of disgust or derision, nor is the thick, segmented covering of mother-of-pearl that stretches from shoulder to fingertips. The iridescent shell catches the sunlight filtering through the water, flashing silver and blue, and Bucky shifts under his stare. His tail drifts lazily in the water, curling around him, the tailfin flared out, black as his tail and chased with hints of deepest blue.  
“No,” the prey agrees, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not a maid.”  
Bucky scoops up water in his shining hand and flicks it towards the human. “Don’t you forget it.”

The human sits crossed-legged on the ledge, staring at Bucky. Not at his tail, or the shining carapace of his left arm, but at _him._  
“So you’re not a mer…” Bucky hisses. “... person.” The human reaches behind him and snags the bag of cookies. “Can I ask what you are then?”  
“No,” Bucky snaps.  
The prey doesn’t take offense, shaking his bag and pulling out a cookie. “Do you have a name? Everything has a name,” he pulls out a cookie and holds it out. Bucky could grab him by the wrist and pull him down. Hold him until he goes limp and silent and still. “I’m Steve.”  
Bucky sidles towards Steve, slow and wary before darting forward, reaching up and snatching the cookie out of his hand. He’s back in the relative safety of the far side of the pool before Steve can wipe away the faceful of water Bucky splashed him with. He makes sure Steve can see his mouthful of sharp teeth as he takes a careful bite of the cookie.  
It’s sweet and crumbly and is gone far too soon. Bucky licks the crumbs gathered at the corner of his mouth.  
“Bucky,” he says when he has swallowed the last trace of sugar. “You can call me Bucky.”  
“Bucky,” Steve says with a grin as he rubs his eyes with his sleeve. “You’re a total jerk, Bucky.”  
Bucky laughs, the sound sharp and unexpected, and he snaps his teeth together. The amusement in Steve’s eyes soon makes him unlock his jaw.  
“Well, you’re a little punk,” he answers with sniff.  
Steve chuckles, and holds out the bag. “You want another?”  
Bucky hesitates, then swims forward.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Bucky blurts out suddenly.  
Steve puts a crumb-covered hand to his cheek. “What? Something on there?”  
Bucky shakes his head and reaches out, touching the tip of a silver blue finger to just under Steve’s eye, brushing against the back of his hand. Steve doesn’t flinch away, but holds himself very still as the cool shell-like fingertip strokes down the side of his nose, past the faint yellow blotch of an old bruise and resting over an old, healed crack in the bone.  
“Oh,” Steve shakes himself, pulling away from Bucky’s touch and blushing. “Yeah, thats. That’s nothing.”  
Bucky frowns, reaching out to touch the old wound again. “Not nothing.”  
He knows broken bones, and the ache of old scars. Steve, emboldened by Bucky’s touch, reaches out to skim his fingers along the pearly segments of his arm. Bucky doesn’t flinch or strike out, letting him trace a fingernail along each join. They are smooth as glass at the crook of his elbow, at the inside of his wrist. Coarse like sand at his shoulder, at the curve of his bicep. Steve presses his thumb to the knot of scar where carapace ends and flesh begins.  
“I get into fights. All the time,” Steve says quietly. “Don’t seem to know when to walk away.”  
The touch is soothing, the pad of his thumb warm and tender. “Have you no kin?” Bucky asks. “No brethren? You stand alone?”  
Steve draws his lower lip between his teeth, and Bucky has a sudden urge to feel the give of that flesh against his tongue.  
“It was just me and my Ma, then it was just me,” Steve says simply.  
Bucky nods. This should be a good sign. A solitary human with no kin to search for them once they have gone. No troublesome brethren seeking revenge for their lost one. He curls his hand around the back of Steve’s neck, thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He is a fragile thing, his skull would crush so easily.  
“My mother was a Siren. I do not know what my father was,” he says instead. “My mother’s people have no need or desire for menfolk, so I was cast to the ocean.”  
Steve’s expression twists up. “They did what?!” He grips the hard shell of Bucky’s arm. “How dare they? Your own mother? How could she-”  
Bucky presses his thumb to Steve’s mouth, silencing him. His lips are as soft as he had imagined, his breath warm and sweet.  
“It is their way. And I lived.”  
Steve scowls. “Even so,” he mutters against Bucky’s thumb. “It ain’t right.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “It is as it has always been.”  
Steve looks unconvinced, glancing down at his grip on Bucky’s arm. “Is that how you…”  
Bucky shakes his head. “I got into a fight that I could not win.” His mouth twists up in a humourless smile. “They let me live.”  
Steve’s grip tightens, and Bucky has the notion that he would only need to point him in the right direction and Steve would march straight into the sea, ready to take on the tides themselves if he saw fit.  
Bucky tugs, bringing their foreheads together. Steve’s stubborn, brave heart thrums against his fingers like the pounding of war drums.

The afternoon draws on and Steve slips off his worn boots. His socks are threadbare at the heel as he tugs them off, bundling them up and stuffing them into his shoes. He rolls up the cuffs on his pants and steps down from the ledge into the water, finding a smooth, flattened stone jutting out far enough to make a comfortable seat while he eases his feet into the pool. His legs are fishbelly pale in the the dark, his toes wriggling. Bucky drifts down to the depths where the light does not reach. It would be easy to grab Steve by the ankle and pull him down. Bucky drifts upwards towards the light, and wraps a cold shell hand around Steve’s foot.  
Steve lets out a shriek and kicks, but Bucky’s grip is stronger, holding on as Steve kicks out, splashing furiously as Bucky holds his foot still as he runs a fingernail along the sole. Steve squirms, thrashing even harder. Oh, he really is ticklish.  
“Quit it,” Steve yelps, kicking Bucky in the shoulder.  
Bucky lets go, swimming to the far side of the pool while Steve manages to keep himself from toppling over, pulling his feet up onto the stone and glaring.  
“You son of a-” Bucky pokes his head out of the water and Steve splashes at him, muttering darkly. Bucky sniggers and swims closer, laughing as Steve flicks water in his face. He grips the rock with his fingertips, resting his chin on the edge and gives Steve a plaintive look. Steve huffs and flicks water at him again.  
“Jerk,” Steve mutters, his voice warm with affection. The sound fills Bucky’s breast with warmth, hazy and thick, like sunlight on water, sparkling and restless, too painful to look upon for long.

The sun slips past the trees, and the air turns crisp. Steve climbs up onto the ledge, stretching his legs out under the fading light. Bucky lies on his back in the water, drifting aimlessly. His tailfin fans out in the water, broad and ruffled like a flamenco dancer’s skirt. Steve watches him sculling in little circles before sitting up with a grunt and pulling on his sock and boots.  
Bucky lifts his head out of the water and makes an inquisitive noise, and Steve gives him a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  
“I should get going.”  
Bucky jerks upright, arms thrashing in the water as he steadies himself. “What?!”  
Steve ties the laces on his boots. “I gotta go home sometime.”  
Bucky shakes his head sharply. “No you don't. There’s nothing waiting for you there.”  
Steve flinches, and Bucky regrets his choice of words. Not enough to take them back. He swims forward, pressing the flat of his hands to the ledge and lifting his upper body out of the water.  
He wants to warn Steve to run away and never come back, never look upon the sea again because it is filled with terrors, go back to the land where it’s safe.  
He wants to tell Steve to never leave, that he hadn’t known solitude until there was someone beside him, and now the thought of never seeing him again makes Bucky’s stomach feel like one of those cold, echoing caverns hidden beneath the land. Places where sunlight has never touched.  
Bucky’s fingers twitch. And what if Steve tells others of what he’s seen. What if others come to the shore in search of the bastard creature with too much Siren in his blood.  
If Steve sees the way Bucky’s hands clench, the way his jaw locks, he gives no sign, checking through his bag for his water bottle and taking a sip.  
“I gotta get something to eat, all I’ve had today is cookies,” he calls over his shoulder.  
Bucky scowls and pushes away from the ledge, slipping silently into the water.  
Steve doesn’t notice, putting his bag in order and fastening it closed.  
He turns back to apologise, to make promises, but Bucky has gone.

Steve peers into the pool, but the water is black and still. The sun is low in the sky, casting deep shadows on the rocks.  
“Bucky?” Steve calls out, but there is no answer. Steve calls again, a little louder. The wind rustles through the trees and the gulls circle overhead, but he is alone.  
He kneels down, as though being closer to the water might give him a better chance of being heard. His reflection stares back at him, worried. “Bucky?”  
He reaches down, his fingers breaking the mirror-still surface, his reflection refracting into a thousand little slices of silver that scatter and reform.  
A cold hand bursts out of the water and grabs his wrist, and Steve tumbles backwards. The hand tugs, and he lets out a yell, struggling to get free, but the grip only tightens. He twists around, ready to jam the heel of his boot into the hand and get away. The fingers are hard, sparkling in the fading light like the smooth lining of an oyster shell.  
“Buck?”  
He twists his hand around in the grip, grabbing the segmented wrist and pulls. His shoulders tremble under the strain, his arms shake, but he braces his feet against the rock for leverage and leans back, hauling until Bucky can reach the ledge and drag himself the rest of the way one-handed.  
Bucky huffs, shaking hair out of his eyes, and lifts a striped bass as long as Steve’s leg out of the water and drops it at Steve’s feet. It lands with a heavy, limp thud, almost as heavy and limp as the way Bucky sags against the rock, trying to hide the way he’s panting for breath.  
Steve nudges the fish with his foot. It doesn’t even twitch.  
“What…?” Steve doesn’t even know what to say beyond that, so lets the question trail off uncertainly.  
“You want food,” Bucky rasps. “Eat.”  
The fish is huge. And Steve has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.  
“I can’t eat all that,” he says weakly as Bucky shoves the fish towards him. “And I… I kind of cook things before I eat them.”  
Bucky waves a shining hand towards the trees. “Make a fire.”  
“Bucky,” Steve says softly.  
“Stay,” Bucky says flatly, his eyes flitting from the fish to the trees to the shore, anywhere but Steve. “Stay.”  
“Where would I sleep?” Steve asks, his voice patient but tinged with a sadness. “How would I stay warm?”  
Bucky hides his face in his folded arms, and thinks of the hollows and caverns deep under the sea. Rocky outcrops and reefs where he can rest in the shadows, his tail wrapped around himself. He thinks of the kelp forests, twisting his tail around the tangled strands and letting himself drift among the green fronds. Of the soft white sands of the shallows where he can burrow deep into seabed, hidden from sight.  
There could be room for another in those places. Strong, slender arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hands cradling a narrow waist.  
“So, you see?” Steve’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. “I should go.”  
Bucky looks away, but not so quickly that Steve can’t see the disappointment creased around his eyes. “But I could take some of this home with me?” Steve says.  
Bucky huffs, shaking himself of his foolish notions and grabs hold of the fish, snapping it’s spine and tearing it into two pieces. He drops the head at Steve’s feet, keeping hold of the tail as he dives back into the water.  
_Stupid_ , he thinks to himself, though if pressed he couldn’t say if he was talking about Steve or himself.  
Steve picks up the head by a ragged chunk of skin around the tear, and after a moment of uncertainty carefully places it in his bag, moving his book to a side pocket. He fastens the snaps shut, and leaves the bag to return to the water's edge. 

The rest of the fish has been wedged between two rocks, and Bucky is lurking amongst the seaweed, his pale blue eyes glaring out from the green fronds.  
“I should go,” Steve says apologetically. “I’ll miss the last train.”  
Bucky folds his arms across his chest, refusing to answer.  
“I’ll come back,” Steve swears, sitting down and kicking his heels against the stone. “And I won’t tell a soul about you, I promise.” He tries to smile, the corner of his mouth twisting in anything but humour. “Not like I talk to anyone.”  
Bucky slips from view, and Steve can just about trace the outline of him moving through the water.  
“Okay,” he utters, his voice cracking. He pats the cold stone. “Goodbye, Buck.”  
He gets to his feet, slow and stiff with the cold, and slips the strap over his shoulder. The daylight is a distant haze on the horizon, and the stars prick out, one by one. The moon offers enough light for him to pick his way along the rocks and find his way back to the path.  
His heart beats faster with every step that takes him further from the sea. His skin prickles with the wrongness of it. He walks, step followed by step followed by step, and he wonders if he turned around now, would he see a trail of blood behind him? Because it feels like a hook snagged in his gut down by the water, his heart pierced on its silver spike. Like every step drags more of his vital organs out through the ragged tear in his flesh, and when he reaches the road he will be just skin and bones and a bloody trail behind him.

The bag drops to the ground, the contents spilling out across the straggling grasses, and Steve turns around.  
There, on the shoreline, a dark shape in the water, following the line of the shore. Bucky hauls himself over the rocks, his black tail trailing behind him as he tries to follow, tries to find a way inland.  
It’s not the slow, careful hunt of a predator wearing down its prey. It’s reckless, panicked.  
Steve abandons the bag in the dunes. The bag and his book and the keys to his draughty apartment left to the slowly shifting sands as he runs back down to the shore, following the wash of black in the water and the insistent pull of his heart.  
Steve drops to his knees, reaching out wordlessly, and Bucky surges out of the waves, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him down into the water, down into a desperate kiss.  
Their teeth clack together, sharp spikes scratching, and Steve clings to Bucky’s shoulders and twists his head to one side, fitting their open mouths together. His breath is hot and sweet in Bucky’s throat, his hands on Bucky’s shoulders like the midday sun. Bucky growls, desperate for more of his smooth, honeyed skin, and tugs Steve’s shirt open. The old, worn fabric tears under his bright fingers, and Steve lets out a low moan, breaking the kiss just long enough to strip off the shirt, Bucky’s restless touches more a hindrance than a help. He lets the shirt be carried away on the tide, arms wrapping around Bucky’s shoulders, holding his head above the waves.  
Bucky presses his mouth to the line of Steve’s jaw, hands moving ceaselessly along his arms, down the notches of his spine, across the concave of his stomach. Bucky maps every line and shape and form of him, the way the palm of his hand fits perfectly around Steve’s shoulder, the curve of his ribs, the beating of his heart. The way he kisses, darting and bright, his tongue flicking between Bucky’s teeth. The way he shivers when Bucky’s teeth graze his full lower lip, the way he moans when Bucky presses a thumb to the hinge of his jaw, opening his mouth to linger in the sweetness of him. And Bucky could kiss him for hours, for days, seal their mouths together and and lose himself in the play of his tongue. But Steve pulls away, time and time again, gasping for air, and dives back for more.

Bucky’s hands smooth down Steve’s sides as they drift out to sea, far from land. His touch gentling, possessive, lingering on cooling skin. Steve shivers and cradles Bucky’s jaw in his hands, feeling the slow, rhythmic movements of his swallows and the flutter of the delicate gills behind his ears. He moves his hands up and threads his fingers through Bucky’s hair and kisses him, slow and deep. Needle-point teeth catch his tongue, leaving pinpricks that sting sweetly, faint traces of blood that are kissed away.  
Bucky’s fingers catch at the waistband of Steve’s trousers, barring his way. He makes an irritated sound against Steve’s lips, hooking his thumbs in the soaked fabric and tugging down.  
Steve squirms, kicking off his boots as Bucky sinks down below the surface and drags the pants down, stripping them away and letting the sea take them. The boots float down to the seabed, and are lost beneath the shifting sands.  
Steve toes off his socks, kicking to stay afloat. He flinches when Bucky touches the thin cotton of his underwear, but Bucky grips him firmly by the hips, skimming the palm of his hand across Steve’s stomach and down, cupping his hardening cock in his hand and pressing. Steve tips back his head and moans as the cloth is tugged away, the low sound in his throat bitten sharply off as Bucky sucks him into his mouth. He tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair, shuddering as Bucky presses his tongue to the underside of his cock, mouthing at the crown before bobbing his head down and swallowing. Steve can only hold on, kept firmly in place by Bucky’s strong grip, unable to thrust forward or pull away, fingers digging into his scalp.  
Steve is hot and hard in Bucky’s mouth, pulse beating against his tongue like a hammer. He draws back until the crown rests on his tongue, lips curled around his sharp teeth as he laps at the slit, tasting salt and musk and bitterness.  
Steve slaps his back, pushing at him until Bucky lets his mouth go slack. Steve ducks his head under the water, cradling Bucky’s face in his hands and kissing him, rough and deep. Bucky tugs him down, fitting their bodies together and curling his tail around Steve’s thigh. He breathes into Steve’s mouth, feeding him air in sips between kisses, thin trails of bubbles escaping the seal of their lips.

Steve reaches down between them, running the back of his fingers down Bucky’s stomach, over the seam where skin becomes scales. He moves without aim, following the jump and twitch of Bucky’s muscles, the catch in his breath, the tension in his hold, until he finds a fold of darkly shining skin just below the flare of Bucky’s hips. He rubs his knuckles against the crease, and Bucky twitches, whining into his mouth.  
Two fingers push in easily, sliding along and curling around the thickening length of Bucky’s cock. Steve strokes it lazily, easing it free of the folds. Bucky shudders, twitching his hips and thrusting into the palm of Steve’s hand as he grasps the smooth length and brushes his thumb over the bevelled tip. Bucky’s hips jerk, his hands on Steve’s waist clasping hard enough to bruise. He pushes Steve’s hand away, breaking their kiss long enough to look down at the thin slice of water between their bodies and pull Steve to his chest. His cups the top of Steve’s thighs and shifts until their cocks slide together.  
Steve lets out a choked gasp, his mouth filling with water as Bucky rocks against him, a sweet, slippery glide of skin on skin.  
Steve grabs Bucky’s hair and crushes their mouths together. His lungs burn, his muscles cold and stiff. His bones ache, like his body is shifting and reforming under Bucky’s hands, moulded like clay into something new.  
Bucky kisses along the line of Steve’s jaw, sucking marks on his throat and mouthing at the thin skin just under his ear. His teeth slice and Steve feels a sharp pain, scents blood in the water. He moans and seawater floods his lungs. He shifts in Bucky’s grip, but is only held tighter as Bucky pulls back to admire his work before he leans in to do the same on the other side.  
Steve feels pressure build in the base of his spine, the ache in his chest spreading, making him lightheaded. Bucky’s thrusts become ragged, uncoordinated, his tail wrapping around Steve’s legs and pulling them tightly together, his arms coiled around Steve’s waist, head resting on his chest, listening to his heart as it stutters and slows.

Steve trembles, and there is no air left in him to cry out with when he comes. There is a brief taste on the water, bitter and sharp, that the sea washes away. He curls Bucky’s dark hair around his fingers and holds him close, feels the moment he shudders and spills between them, a faint cloud of milky white that disperses in the water.  
If Steve raises his head he can see sunlight filtering down towards them. He has never been so cold, not even in the harshest winter. He doesn’t shake with it, safe in the tangle of Bucky’s embrace, far from the world of men.  
Bucky kisses him, slow and sweet, and carries him down to where the sunlight never reaches.

They drift with the tides, pulled further out to sea.  
Bucky keeps his ear pressed to Steve’s chest, as cold and still as the black rocks they met on, listening to the silence. A stubborn heart, fierce and proud. A strong heart, scarred and battered. He listens and he waits.  
The first pulse is barely audible.  
The second a distant tremor.  
The third a pounding of a drum.  
Steve gasps, his whole body spasming, shockwaves that ripple out across the sea floor. Bucky holds him tightly when he must, gently when he dares, until the worst of it passes. He soothes with light touches, with tender kisses, until Steve’s eyes open and clear. They shine, blue chased with green.

Laughter sounds different underwater, a burst of bubbles, a pulse of sound, low and booming like whalesong. That is the first thing Bucky learns.  
Kisses taste the same, be they warmed in the sun or chilled in the depths. And a smiling mouth must always be adorned with kisses, darting and bright.  
The Pacific does not compare to Steve’s eyes. Bucky knows, he’s checked.  
His tail is golden, like honey, like sunlight. 


End file.
